The Legends of Percy Jackson
by Airmage
Summary: He has too much depending on him. He has too many people to care for. He can't hold the burden, but he knows he must. That human part of him, that tiny human part, won't let him fail. It keeps him going. He knows that many want him to given in, to join them. But there're also people who will help despite all the wrongs he feels he's done. Rewrite of PJO series


**Hey guys! I'm really excited about this! So, I do have another story in progress, but I hope to work on this as well. Just please don't expect me to update rapidly. I'd really like to take time with this story, and make it the best that I possibly can. This story idea has been on my mind for a few years, so I thought that I'd just spill it all out.**

**Please, R&R! Tell me what you think!**

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><p>Prologue:<p>

Rain pounded heavily outside. Buildings were still in repair even though it had been a month. The damage to the city was heavy. And to his warriors, his family, it was heavier still.

He hailed a cab from just a few blocks away from the Empire State building. He could have whistled for Blackjack. But after everything that's happened up to this point in his life, he just wanted to take it easy, to travel like a mortal, a regular mortal that is.

He told the driver the address. The driver, an Indian with a turban, looked quite shocked.

"I'm not taking you there," he said with strong American accent. "I've got a wife and kids, and I'm not taking chances like this.

He told him to then just drop him off five blocks away.

The driver did just that, dropping him off at the north end of the Bronx. He paid the driver his price, plus a heavy tip for his trouble. The driver thanked him and hurried off.

He soaked in the rain, but he didn't mind. It made him feel strong, it gave him confidence. A few gang members looked at him the wrong way, and he glared back. They quickly looked away. Satisfied, he continued to walk his way towards his old house. He hadn't been there in a long time. He wondered if anything had changed.

His house was still the same, just looking a lot more worn down from years of neglect. The weeds were overgrown everywhere. The roof looked like it was about to cave in. The windows were still broken, stained with some substance; he didn't know what it was. The tree in the front yard was still large and dead; the old tire swing hung limply from the lowest branch. He slowly walked up the porch, each footstep earning a moan and a groan from the boards underneath. He gently pushed the front door, and it opened, the hinges creaking loudly. He stepped inside the house that he spent most of his childhood in.

To the right was the tiny living room. The moth-eaten, dog-chewed (from stray probably) couch was still there, springs poking out of it. Across the room was a small, twenty inch TV that was probably made in the nineties. Between the two was an old rug that was nothing but a large, torn cloth, like it had gone through hell and back. To the left were the tiny dining room, and another door that led to an even tinier kitchen. Straight ahead, right in front of the front door, was a short hallway that led to the two bedrooms and the tiny bathroom. He leisurely walked down the hallway, remembering all the times he had ran down it, whether it was to answer the door, play with his younger brother, or get his mother's medical supplies from the kitchen. The bathroom was straight ahead, still sprouting slightly yellow water from the tap (he checked). The bathroom windows were still cracked, and the tub still looked like, well crap.

The smaller of the two bedrooms still had the tiny mattress he, his brother, and his mom slept in. Other than that, the room was bare. The tiny lamp by the bed was tipped over, shards of its light bulb spread all around it. The rain still pounded outside, attacking the windowsill and he could hear a fly buzzing around. He walked into the other room, the large master bedroom, and examined it, memories of days going by where he practiced and practiced under his mother's careful gaze. A few dummies were still intact, while a few others lay torn on the floor. The floor in here, like the rest of the house, was made of wood. There was a small pile of worn pillows in the corner, where his mom would sit when she watched her sons train.

He carefully walked over to that pile, and removed it, revealing a rather clean spot of floor. He raised his fist, and punched it against the wooden floor, breaking it instantly. He carefully removed the shards, using his other, clean hand. He couldn't let blood taint the floor and the police find connections to him, not even now, after years. After he removed the wood, he clawed at the dirt underneath, digging out his gun that was still in his holster. It was a pistol, and spare bullets were in a plastic bag underneath. He placed the bullets in his pant pockets, and put the holster on his waist.

He walked back into the bathroom, and healed his hands using the water. Afterwards, he returned to bedroom, and reached under the mattress, pulling out several old journals. Many of them were empty, just blank reminders, once upon a time, that his mother can never write anything, can never become an author just like she dreamed to. He brought them back to the living room. A small spell later, an orb of white light appeared. He sat down on the floor, leaning against the ancient couch, and pulled out his pen. Over the years, it had protected him and everyone he cared about, for the most part. He trained with it all his life, for as long as he could remember. It was given to him by his mom, who said that it was a symbol of his heritage, of where he had come from.

It was a simple ballpoint pen. Uncap it, and a bronze sword would pop out. Place the cap on the tip, and then it would turn it into a pen. It was a gift from his mother, who told him to use it only in dire need; which was often lately. She said that it was the first sword to be made in the Grecian world. A sword forged by Hephaestus, and then tossed aside by Athena herself. It was later found by a sea nymph who named it Anaklusmos. The real name of the sword was lost, and the sword was eventually handed to Heracles, and was lost once more, until his great-great grandfather uncovered in Germany during World War II.

He started writing, in a combination of Ancient Greek, Ancient Latin, Ancient Egyptian, and a little Celtic, a little Norse, but mostly in Ancient Greek. He didn't let his words stop, not once. He needed to let emotions free without fear of criticism from other.

(Page Break)

_My full name is Perseus Alexander Jackson._

_My mom named me after Perseus, the son of Zeus. She said that he was the only hero she knew of who had a happy ending. I guess she was hoping for a happy ending for me, I'm sure. She knew that I would never get one, being who I am and all, but she knew that she could hope. I guess it was that hope that kept her going for all those years. She named me Alexander after Alexander the Great, the first emperor to conquer the entire west and the majority of Asia, stopping at India._

_I am the blood of many gods, but I proudly say that I'm a son of Poseidon. I'm the first of his sons to survive past infancy. The second is my little brother, Theseus Aeacus Jackson. He's the best little brother anyone could ask for. A powerful too, but he's the most kind-hearted, innocent (sort of) soul that I have ever met. If power can be in good hands, it'd be in his. Technically, it is. But it's in mine as well._

_Demigods usually don't know who their godly parent is, but I've known mine ever since I can remember; besides, I'm more god than human. It doesn't help on the monster attacks though; the monsters aren't going to let you go just because you're the son of the sea god. No, the attacks get worse as the years go by. It really sucks._

_And my life sucks._

_I don't have a fat, ugly step-father who abuses my mom, who only puts up with him to protect me. I don't live in a family were income is hard to come by and my mom keeps sending me to boarding schools. Trust me, I'll take one of those lives any day over the one I currently have._

_The gods exist. Not just the Greek gods, but their Roman counterparts, the Norse, the Celtic and the Egyptians all exist. And that's all I know about the Western civilizations. There could be gods from ancient South American civilizations and then the Eastern civilizations for all I know. I am descended from the Western gods, as well as famous figures from the past, such as Cleopatra, and Mordred._

_My great-great-grandfather was Lieutenant-Colonel Maximus Greenwood of the United States Army during World War II. My great-grandfather was his son, and the son of the Norse goddess Freya, the goddess of love, sexuality, beauty, fertility, gold, war and death. His name was Thomas Greenwood, and was a Lieutenant Commander in the US Navy, even fought in Vietnam and Korea, I think. Maximus died when Thomas was only sixteen. But like all those who are the mortal children of the gods, as well as a son of a veteran solider, he survived and enlisted in the Navy instead of the army for some reason; maybe he was still clinging onto the idea of teenage rebellion._

_Anyway, a Roman War goddess and the personification of valor, Nerio, caught his eye and they had a daughter, Laura. Laura trained at Camp Jupiter, and became one of the best Praetors they ever had. Thomas died when Laura was only twenty, a year before she was allowed to leave Camp Jupiter. Laura married my grandfather, James "Jim" Jackson, when she was…twenty-five, I think._

_His background is a little more complicated. He was descended from two of the oldest deities in the Western world; Nephthys, the Egyptian goddess of the death, mourning, nighttime, water, sleep, rivers, service, the home, and the protector of the dead, and Khmun, the form of Ra during the evening sun, the Egyptian god of rebirth, creation, children, and the source of the Nile. Down the line we have the Norse goddess Sjöfn (relationships), the Celtic Morrigan (battles, strife, and sovereignty as well as crows), the Norse goddess Hel (goddess of the Norse Hell who receives half of the dead) and the Norse goddess Ran (thievery). In other words, my brother and I have no idea how powerful we really are. I'm pretty sure that I've only reached half of my potential power, maybe even less. I'm fully aware of my capabilities though. They keep popping up all over the place and sometimes at the most awkward times._

_Anyway, Jim and Laura Jackson had a daughter, my mom, Sally Jackson, the most amazing mom in the world, even if she was sick for nearly all my life. Jim Jackson then fell in love with Bellona, the Roman goddess of War, when mom was two. The result of that affair was my uncle Rick, a downright bastard. But my grandparents died when Mom was eight. Mom always said that they tried to be everything in their blood line, so that was what killed them. After their deaths, eight-year old Sally and six-year old Rick found their way to Camp Jupiter. They went onto high ranks there, becoming Praetors of the Twelfth Legion of Rome, because they both had letters of recommendation from Laura. I think that the Twelfth Legion still remembers my grandma's and mom's name to this day. Last I heard Uncle Rick still lives there._

_Anyway, Uncle Rick became a full-fledged Roman, denouncing the other parts of his bloodline. This was how he survived, mom said; because he chose one person to be, and fought to keep his other powers down. When mom left Camp Jupiter at age eighteen, she started to travel and learn more on her powers and how to manage them. She succeeded, a hundred percent, though only for a few years. She met my dad, Poseidon, when she was twenty-four years old. I was born nearly a year later, in a cabin called Montauk Cabin on the south of Long Island. Three years later, my little brother Theo was born. And that was when her health started to wane. The two of us became too much for Mom to handle. I helped out when I could; I even did small jobs to earn money. We used to live in a small cabin called the Montauk Cabin, which Mom inherited via Grandma Laura. But with Mom getting sick, she couldn't maintain the house, nor drive us to the school that was in town a few miles away. She had to move us all to the north of Bronx; it's not a nice place. I was six, and Theo was three. Mom fell really ill, but I found a job in that area, luckily enough. It wasn't anything good, and I'm ashamed of it. But then, it was what I had to do in order to help my family survive. Mom trained us when we could, and helped me cook when she could. I raised Theo, and even managed to send him to school. I dropped out at an early age, never getting past second grade. I did manage to meet one of the important people in my life, Luke. But, he's a big story that I really don't want to get into; a story of betrayal, heartache, and the gods' amusement._

_I don't know why we, Theo and I, weren't killed at birth. At that time, and even now, I guess, sons of Poseidon were killed because of a prophecy. I didn't know about the prophecy until much later, when everything was going downhill. And more than a year later, I can still clearly remember it, because it hasn't been fulfilled. I'm afraid of the time it will be, because I know that that much power will corrupt me. It'll kill me, slowly. I've already felt it start. I thought I got over most of it, but I'm just lying to myself. If I'll die by anything, it's because of my blood and my godly ancestors._

_I guess I should write down this prophecy, because as far as I know, it's not written down anywhere. Zeus didn't want it to get out that someone could have power that's possibly beyond that of the gods. The thing is Zeus doesn't understand that the powers of the gods and my powers are different, because we belong to two different groups. While they're completely gods, I'm a god with a bit of human in me, as my mom keeps on reminding me. The human part of me keeps me grounded, because it hurts like Tartarus. Anyway, this is the prophecy._

_A son born of the water_

_His bloody hands shan't falter_

_Hear him whose mind is so dark_

_Cursed one bears the Elder mark_

_And western kingdoms shall kneel_

_To him who makes the gods yield_

_So when I heard the prophecy, I figured that the weird birthmark on my shoulder blade wasn't really a birthmark. I have no idea how I got it though, only that I did, and that I have a purpose._

(Page Break)

He stopped writing, words failing him. It seemed that he had gotten out everything that he wanted to get out, and now there was nothing left to say. His heritage, which was kept secret for years, was finally out. The prophecy, and things that he told no one, not even Annabeth and Grover about, were out. It felt good, and a bit of weight was lifted from his chest. He capped his pen, and stuffed it in his pocket. He went back into the master bedroom, and using the pile of clothes in one corner as well as a bit of magic, he created a large bag. He laid the journals at the bottom, and placed his gun and the spare bullets on the top. Rachel, if she wanted, could work with the empty journals. Maybe she would even write out his entire story, and sell it. Now that her parents kicked her out, she needed the money. But knowing Rachel, she would probably donate most of it to charity. After all, she was guaranteed a home. He would make sure of it.

He tied the bag, and walked out of the house. At the front gate, he stopped, and turned around, staring once more at his childhood home. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle.

He felt a cold rush of air blow his hair. He didn't have to turn around to know who was there. Their relationship was shaky at best, but it most likely had something to do with the fact that they had tried to kill each other and succeeded in harming the other's sibling. He had taken a risk and put his trust in him, and was glad to say that the boy standing next to him didn't disappoint.

"Percy," the voice slightly croaked. He smiled; it seemed as if the newcomer had finally hit puberty.

"Hey, Nico," he spoke for the first time that day. "I'm surprised to see you here."

"Lord Poseidon is looking for you," Nico responded "Something about horses. And Lady Athena reminds you that your birthday is in three days."

He stayed silent for a while, "So, they planned to still do it? I thought our dear Uncle Zeus hated the idea."

Nico was standing right next to him, so he felt him tense. "Lord Zeus agreed that if you fulfill your part of the deal, then your wish will come true, with the full support of the Olympians and any others who want to give their children a safe place. There'll be peace in the meantime" After a pause, he added "Percy, its madness. You'll die day one."

"Probably, but I have to try," he responded. In a way, he was glad that he and Nico were having a normal conversation with each other. He feared that the relationship between himself and Annabeth, as well as Nico's developing feelings, would be a problem. They could be, in the future. He kept his mind open to that, and pondered on what to say.

"And besides," here, Nico's voice was carefully guarded "Annabeth is worried about you. Grover and Tyson are getting a bit nervous as well. Y-you should take two others with you. Three for a quest is good luck."

"I don't want anyone to get hurt because of me," His voice hardened. "I've already let down enough friends these past few years."

"But we need _you_," Nico's voice croaked again. He hid a smile. "You were chosen. You were raised. All gods of Olympus should support you without this trial."

What Nico said was true; he suffered enough in his life, though he wished it were otherwise. But if he had to suffer more for those who put their faith in him, then he will. He wasn't the best of leaders, and he knew that one day, he'll fail his people, just like he failed all those others. He changed the subject. "Who told you where to find me?"

"Hermes," Nico replied. He could feel the younger boy's gaze on the worn house in front of them. "Is this where you grew up?"

"For the most part," he replied. "It's were all the bad things happened, but a lot of good things as well, I guess. Shall we go?"

He figured that grabbing the other boy's hand was the worst possible move, but it seemed that he was still thinking impulsively when it came to certain things. Nico tightened his grip, and Percy's world turned cold and black.

It was time to go.


End file.
